It took a full ten minutes for my hand to heal—agonizing minutes spent in silence, letting the dull ache recede and the broken tissue knit itself back together. I didn’t complain. Not once. I sat there, still and wordless, my face a blank slate. That silence, more than anything, seemed to irk Markus. I could feel his stare, expecting some bitter remark or wounded pride. But I gave him nothing.

  I had lost. Not the way I wanted—certainly not fairly—but a loss was a loss. He’d gotten what he wanted, at least for now. Perhaps, with that minor satisfaction soothed, he wouldn’t feel the need to stab me in the back later, should I win the third round. That was something, I supposed.

  When it came time, neither of us spoke as we discarded the wooden swords—splintered, chipped, and pointless now. What surprised me more was that Markus made no move to coat his hands or blade in holy water this time. Perhaps he thought he had the upper hand. Perhaps he didn’t think he’d need it. That was his mistake.

  I almost felt guilty for what I was about to do. Almost.

  “Try to win this time,” he said, casually tossing my earlier taunt back at me. The corner of his mouth curled in amusement.

  I offered a wry smile in return, stepping into the ring with slow, deliberate steps. The circle felt narrower this time—tenser somehow. Like the air itself had coiled up, holding its breath.

  Markus joined me, his usual smirk still playing on his face. But it vanished the moment I reached beneath my dress and pulled free the short kitchen knife I’d strapped to my thigh—plain steel, slightly dulled, but functional. His eyes widened, and for the first time that day, I saw a glint of unease.

  My grin widened to match the gleam of the blade.

  “Try not to die, alright?” I said coolly, before dashing forward.

  Something felt… off. Sluggish. Not just from the fight earlier, but something deeper, as if my strength was being drawn away in thin, invisible threads. I could still fight, yes—still move with speed and precision—but not quite at full force.

  That was the point. I couldn’t show too much. If I felt the weight, then the others—real vampires, older ones—would notice too. I needed to act like the drain affected me more than it did. If I moved as well as I truly could, someone might start asking the wrong questions. So I slowed my rhythm, just enough.

  Still, Markus had no opportunity to relax. I attacked relentlessly, my blade flashing with quick, tight jabs—one to his ribs, then his shoulder, another to his thigh. He dodged the first. The second. The third.

  So, stabbing wouldn’t do. Not with him weaving just out of reach.

  I didn’t let up. Instead, I changed tempo—thrusting forward with my knife, then snapping into a low kick. He blocked one, evaded another, but a few landed squarely. His knees would be sore tomorrow. Maybe his pride too.

  Still, I couldn’t land anything meaningful. The knife in my hand felt like a joke—a piece of kitchenware pretending to be a weapon. Frustrated, I switched it to my left hand, but the change brought no better result.

  So I backed off.

  Just a little. Just enough to let us breathe.

  Markus still hadn’t tried attacking. He was playing the long game—conserving energy, waiting for me to overextend or fumble. He didn’t need to win through strength; he wanted a mistake.

  If that’s what he was hoping for… I’d just have to give him one.

  Or the illusion of one.

  I smiled again—something sharp and unreadable—and surged forward, but this time, I aimed lower. Not at his torso. Not at his chest. I struck for his hands. Twice I came close, the blade nearly kissing his fingers. The third time, he moved in. Fast. Predictable.

  His hand clamped around my wrist.

  We froze—locked in that moment, faces inches apart. His grip was strong, secure, but I smiled anyway. Wide. Triumphant.

  Because he hadn’t seen the other hand.

  I released the knife. Let it drop.

  And just as his attention flicked downward—just as he realized what was happening—I shot my left hand toward the falling blade. So did he.

  We reached it nearly in unison. He was faster. I’ll give him that. His hand closed around the handle.

  But mine didn’t need to.

  I balled my fingers into a fist and drove it directly into his solar plexus.

  A thud. A gasp. The knife tumbled loose from his grip as his entire body jolted backward, his breath stolen from his lungs. He stumbled, reeling, his face twisted in agony.

  I didn’t wait.

  I followed him, fists flying. A jab to the ribs. A hook toward his side. My strikes weren’t elegant—but they were vicious. Blunt. They kept him off balance, unable to recover. Even if he managed to twist the knife around and fight back, his stance was broken. He was seconds from the floor.

  "Lucinda wins."

  The referee's voice rang hollowly through the arena—calm, final, and entirely accurate.

  And yet... it felt so anticlimactic.

  I stood there, panting softly, eyes still locked on Markus as he clutched his abdomen and struggled to stay upright. My victory was clean. Efficient. But it left no thrill in its wake.

  Did the match go well?

  Hardly.

  If anything, it was a delicate balancing act between failure and survival. I’d proven to Arthur that I could hold my own in combat—that I wasn’t some fragile ornament undeserving of the battlefield. But at the same time, I hadn’t managed to sway Markus even a fraction. Whatever contempt he harbored for me remained intact, perhaps even deepened by the outcome of the duel.

  The match should have gone as expected. It would have—if not for the holy water. That changed everything. Twisted the rules and spoiled the rhythm. Now, Markus would have to live with the knowledge that he only claimed victory in one round by resorting to underhanded tactics. And worse for his pride: when I returned the favor in the third round with a bit of trickery of my own, he couldn’t win.

  He didn’t speak a word as he walked off, his back rigid, his posture cold. Without so much as a glance in my direction, he headed for the mansion, disgruntled and bitter.

  “Impressive,” Arthur’s voice came from behind me, composed but tinged with intrigue. “It’s been a long time since anyone bested him like that.”

  Exactly what I didn’t want to hear. If Arthur recognized it, then Markus surely did too. That kind of humiliation festers. Sooner or later, it demands retribution.

  In other words, Markus might have to die. Accidentally, of course.

  I turned to Arthur, affecting a slightly sheepish look, scratching my cheek to soften the words I was about to say. “Would you be so kind as to ensure I don’t have to deal with him while I’m serving in the army?”

  I tried to look a little cuter—less threatening. But it’s difficult to pull off charm with a half-dried patch of blood blooming across your chest.

  Arthur’s eyes narrowed subtly. “I don’t like it when my subordinates quarrel.”

  He glanced in the direction of the mansion, where Markus was just opening the heavy front door.

  Fair enough. If I were in his place, I wouldn’t like it either. But then again, we weren’t talking about other people. We were talking about me.

  “And I don’t like having a sword in my back,” I said plainly.

  He didn’t like that answer. I could see it in the tension at the corner of his jaw. But he couldn’t deny it either. Not entirely.

  After a pause, he sighed and said, “I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  And with that, he turned to follow Markus inside, leaving me alone in the cool, quiet garden.

  Well—mostly alone.

  I had barely lain down in a patch of grass, hands folded under my head, eyes drifting up toward the glittering sky, when she arrived. Light footsteps, deliberate and soft. And then—shadow.

  “Is antagonizing everyone a hobby of yours?” Mary White, duchess of these lands and a woman far too observant for her own good, stood at my side, blocking the moonlight with her silhouette.

  I didn’t bother sitting up. “Nah, not really,” I muttered, squinting past her. “It’s more of a lifestyle.”

  Thankfully, she caught the hint of annoyance and shifted to the side, allowing the silver light to fall across my face again.

  “And what about you?” I said, still staring at the sky. “Enjoying your time surviving?”

  “He can’t come after me directly. That’s something,” she replied, her voice clipped but calm. “As for the rat I fed my food to—well, one less traitor in the mansion.”

  I exhaled slowly and let my gaze drift over the stars again.

  “Have you ever wondered what it’s like to be a star?” I asked, letting the words carry into the quiet night. “To exist alone in some far-off place, isolated but eternal—shining your light into the void, indifferent to whether anyone sees it or not?”

  Mary was silent for a beat. Then: “I’m not as philosophical as you.”

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  A weak answer. Not nearly as good as Askas’ had been. But then again, not everyone had the depth—or the damage—to appreciate that kind of solitude.

  I didn’t say anything more. I just watched the stars flicker—distant, silent, immortal—and wondered which of us would burn out first.

  “It is lonely,” I murmured, more to the stars than to her. “Nothing around a star truly understands it—because there's only the darkness. And light and darkness don’t mix well, do they?”

  I wasn’t sure if Mary grasped what I meant—or if I even wanted her to. Some truths aren’t meant to be understood. They’re meant to sit in silence, like gravestones no one visits anymore. I was alone in this world, drifting, a light on the edge of collapse, with Aska lost in the void between us. He didn’t want to be saved—not yet. That left me suspended, unsure if I was meant to shine or fade.

  I felt like the darkness itself—just one heartbeat away from being driven out by something brighter.

  “And yet,” Mary said softly, “the darkness can’t exist without the light… and the light would be meaningless without the darkness. They need each other. Are you alright? You worry me with asking these questions.”

  I turned my head slightly, just enough to see her out of the corner of my eye. Her voice carried concern—genuine, perhaps. But genuine or not, it was unwelcome.

  I said flatly. “Don’t intrude.”

  I didn’t need her kindness. Not now. Emotional ties would only blur the path forward, and people like her couldn’t understand what it meant to be truly alone—not in the way I was.

  “I am okay.” Lonely, yes. But otherwise functional. I was still learning, adapting, biding my time. This place was a fragile pocket of peace, a quiet before the inevitable storm. “Why are you here?”

  She hesitated, then tried to soften her tone with a smile. “Am I not allowed to be?”

  But I saw through it—this wasn’t a friendly visit. She wanted something. She wouldn’t risk being seen with me unless it served her purpose. If Arthur truly had tried to poison her, and if she was seen standing beside me now, his efforts to eliminate her would only double. She must have known that. And yet, here she was.

  “Ask your husband if you can or not.” My words were curt, clipped. I didn’t want her around. If she became a burden, she’d drag me down with her, and I couldn’t afford that—not with everything I had to do.

  “…I need your help.”

  Of course she did. That much had been obvious from the moment she cast her shadow across my stars.

  “Is there ever a time when you don’t need my support?” I replied bitterly, not bothering to hide the irritation in my voice. I thought I was done with Mary—thought I’d walked away from her problems. Apparently, she hadn’t gotten the message.

  “You told me what I had to do!” she snapped, frustration breaking through her polished demeanor. “But it’s impossible. He’ll notice the moment I do anything unusual.”

  I yawned—long and loud. This conversation was already tiresome, and I had little interest in coddling her panic. She’d only just become a target, and already she was unraveling.

  “Then figure it out,” I said coldly. “I have no use for someone who can’t carry out such a simple task.”

  She bristled, eyes narrowing. “Simple? Do you honestly think this is simple?!”

  “Yes,” I said, folding my hands behind my head. “Compared to what I’m dealing with? Absolutely.”

  I waved a hand lazily, trying to shoo her off like a bothersome fly. She didn’t move.

  “And what exactly are you doing?” she asked, her voice sharp and suspicious.

  I didn’t answer. I had no intention of telling her what I was planning—not my long-term goals, not the delicate threads I was weaving, not the names I kept written in blood in the back of my mind. Those weren’t things she could grasp. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

  So I gave her the only answer that would shut her up.

  “I’m trying to sleep.”

  The grass was soft beneath me. The air smelled faintly of flowers and dew, nothing like the stale, dry hollowness of purgatory. And above, the stars shimmered, patient and indifferent.

  It was a perfect night.

  It would’ve been better if she weren’t standing in it.

  “Don’t mind me if I join you, then,” Mary said softly, before lowering herself onto the grass beside me.

  She lay down so close I could feel her presence—warm, persistent, and unwanted. Her gaze followed mine toward the heavens, the stars blinking like silent witnesses above. I didn’t know what she was trying to accomplish by lying there, side by side with someone she knew barely tolerated her. Maybe she wanted connection. Maybe she was lonely, too. Or maybe she simply didn’t want to face the darkness alone.

  It didn’t matter. I only wanted her to shut up—or better yet, disappear entirely.

  “I’ve never laid down like this,” she murmured after a while, as though admitting some small, intimate truth.

  I didn’t respond. Not even a glance.

  “It’s beautiful,” she added in a voice lined with awe.

  I kept my eyes on the stars, resisting the urge to comment that they didn’t care whether she was impressed or not.

  “Lucinda…” Her voice trailed into silence, unsure, perhaps yearning for some acknowledgment. But I had stopped listening. My mind was already retreating from her presence, peeling back the layers of reality like a curtain drawn to reveal a gentler world behind it.

  I let myself sink into memory.

  The warmth of Aska’s embrace returned to me—not physically, of course, but through the traces he had left imprinted on my soul. Each memory of him lit up the darkness within me like candles in a cavern: his voice, his laughter, his stubborn gentleness. The way he looked at me like I was something worth saving.

  I drifted deeper into that warmth, each remembered touch and whisper wrapping around me like a cocoon. For a moment, the world felt right again, even though it wasn’t. Mary, perhaps sensing the shift, finally went quiet. Whether out of respect or resignation, I couldn’t tell.

  And then, like slipping beneath still waters, I fell asleep.

  Dreams are strange. Sometimes they coil around your thoughts like smoke, subtle and weightless. Other times they crash over you like a storm, unrelenting and raw. And occasionally—when something is truly, profoundly wrong—they do both.

  This dream didn’t taste like the usual nightmares, nor the vivid flashbacks of death I had grown so used to. It was something… off. Like standing in a familiar room that someone had ever-so-slightly rearranged. The wrongness was quiet, but present.

  I found myself standing amidst a river of souls, all drifting in one direction. Silent. Unquestioning. Their forms shimmered, translucent and pale like breath on glass. They trudged forward without sound, but the crunch of gravel under their feet filled the air with a steady rhythm—like the ticking of a broken clock that no one dared fix.

  I stood still. They flowed around me like water around a stone. I knew this place. Not exactly. But I knew it. This was purgatory, or a dream made in its image.

  Then it came—the sound.

  A deafening screech, like steel grinding mercilessly against steel, pierced the stillness. It tore through my mind with such violence that I staggered, covering my ears in vain. The sound came from everywhere and nowhere, scraping against thought itself. None of the souls reacted. They kept walking, blank and serene, as if they were deaf to the agony clawing at the air.

  But I heard it.

  And I couldn’t ignore it.

  Something was wrong here. Deeply, viscerally wrong.

  Acting on instinct, I began searching for something—anything—to elevate myself above the tide of souls. Large rocks were rare in purgatory, but I got lucky. After a frantic minute of searching, I spotted one—a jagged slab of dark stone jutting up like a forgotten tooth in the earth.

  Without wasting time, I clambered up its side, ignoring the scrapes on my palms. From that height, I hoped to see something. A source. A pattern. A threat.

  I had no idea what I would find.

  Meanwhile, the screeching only intensified, growing so loud that it eclipsed every other sound in existence. And then—nothing. A total, suffocating silence. My ears rang with the absence of sound, an unnatural void. I pressed my fingers against my ears and felt the damp warmth of blood. My eardrums were gone—torn apart by the force of that metallic scream. And yet, I still heard it. Not through my ears, but deep within my bones. My lungs vibrated with the tremor of it. The stone beneath me shuddered in sync, scattering the pebbles at my feet into a frenzied dance. Even the air was trembling.

  That was when I saw it.

  A light—unlike any I’d ever witnessed—appeared in the distance. Brilliant, but not harsh. Soft, yet impossible to ignore. It pulsed gently, almost invitingly, as it approached, but I knew better than to be seduced by it. There was something profoundly unnatural about its presence in this colorless void.

  As it neared, I began to make out its form: a massive, metallic entity, like a worm forged from polished steel. Its surface glinted with that same alien light, and its segmented body twisted with a terrifying grace. It slithered forward, but it wasn’t just moving—it was tearing through purgatory itself. It tunneled through the crowd of lost souls without resistance, leaving devastation in its wake.

  Wherever the creature passed, it flung the souls away like leaves in a storm. There was no pattern to the destruction—just indiscriminate, mechanical violence.

  And it was heading straight for me.

  The trembling of the rock intensified. I looked down and saw two long, parallel metal bars running through the stone on which I stood, extending in both directions until they disappeared into the fog of souls.

  Was it its food? Its prison? Its purpose? I couldn’t say.

  I turned just in time to see it breach the final veil of souls standing between us. It was massive, dwarfing everything in its path. Up close, it was even more terrifying—its nose rounded, smooth, and almost elegant, as if it had been designed by human hands. But its purpose was anything but human. It radiated hunger. Its body hissed and clicked with mechanical precision, crushing eternity beneath its tread.

  My eyes locked onto a small, illuminated panel embedded into the front of the beast. Strange characters blinked into existence on its smooth surface, decipherable to me despite their foreign nature.

  “Purgatory – Universal Studios …”

  That was all I had time to read before the worm engulfed me.

  There was no pain. No fear. No time to react.

  One moment, I stood on the rock, watching it approach.

  The next—

  I ceased.

  But death can be revealing. Enlightenment, like the light that swallowed me, came swiftly.

  First, the realization: there were things in purgatory I had never encountered before. This was a place I thought I understood, where I had died seventy thousand times, and yet never had I seen anything like this mechanical monstrosity.

  It couldn’t have been some wandering accident of creation. No—this thing had purpose. A system. A function. Its existence meant something. I had no doubt now that it had been created by a god—perhaps one I hadn’t met. Or maybe even Aska himself.

  Had he hidden it from me? Was this a message?

  The second revelation was the language.

  I had studied more tongues than most could fathom. Ancient scripts. Forbidden dialects. Dead languages spoken by forgotten races. But the characters on that screen? I had never seen their like before. And yet, I understood them.

  That was the strangest part.

  I woke up with a jolt, cold and breathless beneath the soft moonlight. The stars still burned overhead, distant and uncaring. The grass was dewy against my back, and the world felt real again—tangible, ordinary.

  Mary was gone.

  And I was left alone.

  Alone and deeply, profoundly curious about what the fuck had just happened.